


Doom and Salvation

by Deeranger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blood As Lube, Bottom Sam, Brother/Brother Incest, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced, Fuck Or Die, Graphic Description, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hunt Gone Wrong, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Winchesters (Supernatural), Incest, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Men Crying, Mind Games, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Rough Sex, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, Scared Castiel (Supernatural), Scared Dean Winchester, Scared Sam Winchester, Sexual Violence, Spells & Enchantments, Top Dean Winchester, Torture, Tortured Sam Winchester, Violence, Whump, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24648955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/pseuds/Deeranger
Summary: Sam and Dean are hunting a powerful witch with the help of Castiel. But one night Sam ventures out on his own and just about everything goes wrong. Now it's up to Dean and Cas to get him back alive. Only, that proves to be a challenging feat because they've walked right into a carefully laid trap and now the witch has them right where she wants them. Outnumbered and overpowered the trio has no choice but to dance to the witch's tune in the hopes of getting out alive. But to her, this is game night - and the brothers better play their cards just right to survive. But is it really worth it in the end? After all, some things are worse than death.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 76
Collections: Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock) in the [SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SamWinchester_Prompt_a_thon) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Sam has been caught by some bad guys (writers choice for who or why). When Dean and/or Cas find him in a too-small cage, beat up and bloody they think it's finally over.
> 
> But they're out numbered and so the bad guys offer Dean and/or Cas a deal. Sam will be let go into their care, provided one of them tortures him and make him scream (x) number of times first.
> 
> Preferable to them all ending up dead, they agree. The only problem is Sam doesn't get to know the rules, and he can only guess they've been strong-armed into hurting him. He thinks if he just keeps his noises of pain to himself, grits his teeth and bears it as silently as possible, it will be easier on all of them. Of course, this only causes whoever is chosen to hurt him to have to escalate their methods.
> 
> Happy with any of the ships and characters listed, whatever sparks joy! And any rating is fine, I chose explicit because I'm happy for it to go there if you want.
> 
> **I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you'll like it. And please, do heed the warnings and read the tags. This is exactly what it says on the tin. Happy reading!**

The abandoned warehouse is shrouded in darkness, steam rising from the sewers to create columns of gray to contrast the black. The smell of wet asphalt and something rotten hangs heavily in the air, and Dean’s fingers work tirelessly to get the pins to open the lock mechanism inside the tiny keyhole.

  
“It’s alright, just gimme a sec,” he says and twists the pins one more time, trying his best not to let his fingers shake. The cage is far too small and Sam is practically twisted into a knot in order to fit inside it. The way blood oozes from his nose to run down over his lip makes the older Winchester’s heart sink, but at least Sam is still conscious.

  
“What happened?” Castiel asks, his eyes carefully studying how Dean’s fingers keep working on the lock. Sam lets out a small huff, ignoring how he can’t even wipe his bloody nose with his sleeve – there simply isn’t enough room.

  
“I… I’m not sure. I tracked the witch here, but she must’ve jumped me,” he says and winces when he tries to move into a less uncomfortable position and fails.

  
“It’s definitely a trap,” Dean says, gritting his teeth when the pins scrape against the latch inside the keyhole. There’s no doubt in his mind that they’re being watched, and he has to get the Sam out of this damn cage before whoever is lurking in the shadows decides to launch an attack.

  
“Cas, heal him…?” he mutters as he keeps twisting the pins back and forth. This lock is stubborn, but now is not the time to grow impatient. Instead, his eyes are laser-focused as he works, any tiny movement more than enough to potentially unlock the cage or just return him status quo.

  
“Thank you,” Sam says, sending Castiel a grateful glance when the pain in his body evaporates and disappears. A relieved sigh escapes the young hunter; at least now the only thing that’s physically uncomfortable is the steel bars pressing against him. But there are definitely other things to worry about. They’re not alone. He can feel it.

  
“Damn it,” Dean huffs when the pins miss their target once again and he clenches his jaw muscles, knowing that he has to get a grip soon if they’re going to stand a chance at whatever is hiding in the darkness.

  
“ _That’s right, Dean_.”

  
Instantly he freezes. The female voice sounds loud and clear, but at the same time he can’t at all tell if he just imagined it. Nervously he turns his head to look at their shadowy surroundings, tries to catch a glimpse of movement, anything, really. But he finds nothing. When he turns his head back Sam and Castiel are just looking at him with questioning expressions on their faces.

  
“What is it?” Sam asks warily. Dean just shakes his head and resumes working on the lock. It must have been his imagination playing tricks on him, he gathers. He _has_ been on edge lately, after all.

  
Suddenly there’s the sound of laughter and Dean jumps, nearly dropping the pins. The sound seems to come from everywhere and nowhere and instantly he whips his head to the side, looking into the dense darkness surrounding them.

  
“Who’s there!?” he barks.

  
“Reveal yourself!” Castiel says, his blue eyes scanning the little of the warehouse that isn’t just pitch black.

  
“Umm… What’s going on?” Sam asks, eyes wide and puzzled. Perplexed Dean turns his head back to look at him.

  
“What? You didn’t hear that?” he asks, fingers fumbling to keep the pins steady.

  
“Hear what?” Sam just says, and a frown appears on Dean’s face.

  
“ _Don’t tell him_ _anything_.” 

  
There’s that voice again. Loud and piercing. And inside his head apparently. Swallowing Dean is just about to tell whoever is messing with them to go fuck themselves, but before he can get the words out the voice rings in his head again:

  
“ _Let him know and he dies_ ,” the voice says and it feels like the sound reverberates inside Dean’s skull.

  
“ _Here’s the deal. I want to play a game. If you play it right you get to take Sammy home with you. If you don’t… He will die right in front of you_ ”. 

  
Instantly Dean tenses. So does Castiel. He can tell by the way the beige trenchcoat tightens around his shoulders.

  
“ _And then I will kill both of you… Very slowly_ ,” the voice adds, and nervously Dean looks up at the angel. He looks back at him, looking a little paler than moments ago. At least Dean isn’t the only one hearing this in his head and he’s a little grateful for that.

  
“ _How do you know I’m telling the truth? Well…_ ” the voice says and trails off. Silence falls and Dean lets his gaze settle on Sam, who is still just looking up at him, confused.

  
“Dean, what is it? What did you hea-aaahhhh!!!!” he begins, but his words suddenly turn into a pained groan. Baring his teeth he tries to curl up, but he already is and he can’t move much more than an inch.

  
“Sam?!” Dean bursts out and he works even harder at the lock, fingers trembling. Blood is trickling out between the young hunter’s lips and an agonized grunt leaves him.

  
“ _I trust that’s proof enough_ ,” the voice states, and suddenly the lock on the cage clicks open. Dean’s pins weren’t even close to catching the latch though, but right now he doesn’t even think about that – all he thinks about is getting Sam out of his confinement, to stop the owner of the voice from hurting him.

  
“Sam?? Sammy?!” he hears himself say, and he grabs a hold of his brother’s shoulder to pull him out of the cage. A cough escapes him when his longs limbs are forced out of their curled up position, every muscle and tendon complaining at the movement. But blood is no longer dribbling out of his mouth and he looks up at Dean, wide-eyed and with a nervous and bewildered expression on his face.

  
“It’s... I’m okay. It stopped,” he says, knees wobbly as he gets to his feet. Carefully he wipes at his face with his sleeve, staring down at the blood-stained flannel as if he doesn’t believe his own eyes.

  
“What the hell’s going on?” he asks, looking from his brother to the angel and back again.

  
“ _If you want to bring him home alive you better not answer that_ ,” the voice chuckles. Dean swallows dryly, his glance flicking between the darkness and Sam’s eyes.

  
“Umm… I don’t know,” he just says, feeling an icy shiver roll down his spine.

  
“ _Good boy. Seems like you and your angel are ready to play? You better be. These are the rules of the game… Break them and you all die_.”

  
Dean swears he’s just about to crack a tooth because he is clenching his jaw hard enough to make his teeth grind against each other and give off a squeaky sort of sound. Castiel looks almost as tense, and he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Sam is just looking confused.

_  
“Sam does not get to know anything. Your goal is to make him scream twice and cry one tear. If you succeed you all go free. If you fail you die. Is that clear?”_

  
Dean’s knuckles turn a milky white as the words bounce around inside his head, ringing in his ears and amplifying. How can anyone do this to them? And why? What kind of sick fuck can possibly find this entertaining? The tendons in his hands crackle lightly as his fists turn a little tighter, hanging passively down his sides. He wishes he could just swing them at the voice, plant them right in whatever face it belongs to. But he can’t. He knows that.

_  
“Is that clear?”_

  
It feels like his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth now. A sudden dryness is invading it and making it feel like a desert and he swallows, trying to produce just a tiny bit of saliva. He then flicks his gaze to Castiel. The angel has paled even more, it seems. His glance is alert and sad and scared all at the same time. Probably much like his own. His gaze then flicks to Sam and his heart sinks. His brother is absolutely clueless, confusion still painted on his face as he returns his glance. But there’s something else in the hazel eyes, something more fearful… He knows there’s something wrong. Dean can tell. The kid always did have good instincts.

_  
“Is that clear? Last chance!”_

  
A hiss is just about to slip out between Dean’s lips, but he manages to swallow it down just in time. Barely. He wants to bellow out a loud ‘fuck you’ and just charge blindly into the shadows, arms swinging and gun blazing. But he can’t. And he doesn’t. Instead, he forces himself to give a minute nod of his head, fixing his gaze somewhere on the ground.

  
“ _Splendid! Let’s play then!_ ” the voice says excitedly, and Dean has to focus in order to contain the snarl that wants to tumble out of him. It feels like someone has just punched him in the gut.

  
“Dean…?” Sam says, his voice meek and nervous. Carefully the older hunter lifts his gaze to look at him, and he hates how vulnerable his little brother looks right now. Or maybe it’s just in his head? Either way, he knows that he has to do what the voice wants. But how the hell is he supposed to do this? And how can he be sure that he’ll even succeed? No matter what he has to act and he has to do it now.

  
“Sam… Just stand still, okay?” he manages to say as he slowly puts his gun down on the dirty cement floor. Castiel follows suit, discarding his blade with movements that almost look like they’re in slow motion.

  
“Why?” Sam asks, and his brows knit themselves together closely. A shaky sigh escapes Dean as he stands back up, readying himself for what he has to do. His little brother is looking like one big question mark, tense and clearly on edge. Castiel looks near frozen, but the older hunter can tell by the look in his eyes that they are on the same page. There’s no way around this. None.

  
“Just do it,” Dean says, and he hates how Sam almost flinches at that. But still, he does as he’s told and stays in the same spot, his long arms hanging down his sides. It feels like Dean’s heart plummets to the very pits of his stomach, shattering somewhere on the way. And Sam is just looking at him. God, he wishes that he wasn’t looking at him like that. Swallowing Dean tightens his right hand into an even firmer fist, shooting Castiel a brief glance. The angel just nods.

  
“ _Get on with it!”_

  
The voice in his head sounds annoyed and impatient as it spits the words at him. It sounds dangerous. And Dean knows that he’s out of time. God help him, he’s out of time.

  
With a snarl he snaps into action and swings his fist. As it whistles through the air he sees Sam’s eyes widen a bit – and then his knuckles collide with his brother's cheekbone and whip his head to the side with a loud ‘smack’. A gasp escapes Sam as he staggers backward a bit, his hand automatically covering the aching area as if he doesn’t believe what he’s feeling. But he doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring at Dean, eyes wide and betrayed. And Dean fucking hates it, hates it with every fiber of his being. Why isn’t he saying anything? If he’d just yell at him, it would be easier. And he only let out a tiny gasp. There’s a long way from _that_ to scream. Let alone two of them. Plus a tear.

  
“ _Bravo. Good start!_ ” the voice cheers in his head and he just wants to make it shut up.

  
Sam’s lips part slightly only to close again as if he’s trying to formulate a sentence that just won’t come out. The confused look is still on his face, but at the same time he looks sort of resigned and he is just standing there passively, big eyes locked on his brother. And then Castiel springs into action. With a quick right hook, a fist slams into Sam’s side, almost knocking the wind out of him. Instantly a wheezing sound escapes him and he can feel his knees buckle ever so slightly and making him wobble. But he is still standing. And he is still awfully quiet. Now he just looks even more betrayed, his hazel eyes nervously shifting between Dean and the angel as if he’s hoping to read their minds somehow. But both of them are silent, their fists raised and their faces turning an ashen color. Their eyes do the talking for them though and it is clear to the young Winchester that they’re not doing this because they want to. No, they’re doing it because they have to. But why?

  
Wincing a little Sam straightens back up when his knees stop feeling like jelly and air returns to his lungs. He’s pretty sure his cheek is swollen from Dean’s blow already, because he can feel a tightness spreading all the way to his eye, pulling at the skin and throbbing. And his side is smarting, ribs complaining. But it’s not that bad. Not yet, anyway. And he can take a beating – it’s not like he hasn’t before. He just wishes he knew what for. And he wishes that he knew what he is supposed to do right now because honestly he doesn’t have a damn clue. If only he could ask, but he’s confident that he’s not going to get an answer. He’d probably just make things worse and—

  
The fist that hits him rattles his jaw, sending him stumbling backward when it feels like several of his teeth are about to go flying. The taste of blood quickly spreads in his mouth, the coppery tang of it coating his tongue, and he bites back the grunt that wants to escape him. Pain zaps through him and for a moment he’s wondering if his jaw might be dislocated. But he quickly dismisses the thought when he finds himself able to bite down, grinding his teeth against each other, when another fist hits him in the side again. An _‘oomph’_ is punched out of him in the process and he staggers, doing his best to stay upright.

  
“Fuck!” he hears Dean burst out. He can’t tell if he sounds angry or sad or just desperate. But the way he rakes his hand through his hair lets him know that he is more than just a little frustrated. And the look in his green eyes seems close to haunted, so full of guilt and a dozen other things that Sam can’t even begin to decipher or keep track of.

  
Trying to breathe evenly the young hunter steadies himself, automatically wiping his mouth with his sleeve and blotching it a deep scarlet. He is ready for another blow. Well, as ready as he can get, at least. Dean is breathing almost as heavily as he is, and Sam knows that it isn’t from exertion. Not even by a long shot. No, his brother is genuinely upset and Sam’s gut twists and churns by the sight.

  
“It’s okay, Dean…” he rasps, trying his best to soothe his older brother who is looking completely lost right now. But the words don’t really seem to carry much weight, because now it almost looks like Dean feels even worse.

  
“No! It’s not!” he spits, and before Sam knows it another fist strikes him, smashing into his eyebrow. The feeling of skin splitting is grotesque and far too familiar, a stinging pain zapping through him as blood trickles down and almost seeps into his eye. God, it stings like a bitch. By the feel of it, he is going to need stitches for this one. Blinking rapidly he tries to focus his eyes because everything is looking a bit fuzzy all of a sudden. If it’s because of the blow he just received rattling his brain a little or if it’s because blood actually _did_ get in his eye, he doesn’t know. And it doesn’t really matter. What matters is to get this over with. Whatever _this_ is. But the room is beginning to spin a little, he realizes. Licking his bloody bottom lip he tries to get his eyes to fix on Dean, tries to will the fuzziness to just go away:

  
“I want you to know that… That whatever reason you have for doing this… It’s alright,” he says, trying to reassure his brother once more that he really isn’t going to hold it against him. Ever. Because clearly he doesn’t have a choice here, and he’ll be damned if his brother is going to feel guilty about that. The same goes for Castiel. Whatever entity is forcing them to do this must have them in a tight spot, must have some sort of grip on them that he doesn’t know about yet. Hopefully, he can figure it out and help them get out of—

  
“God damn it!” Dean growls, raking his hand through his hair again. He looks like he is about to crawl right out of his own skin, and Sam can’t stand it. Actually, it’s almost more painful than the blows. Carefully he extends his hand to pat his older brother’s shoulder, tries his best to offer some sort of comfort – but Dean nearly recoils from the touch, whipping his head to the side to face him. His green eyes are practically blazing and his glare piercing. Dangerous. Like a wild animal backed into a corner, ready to attack whoever comes too near. The sight makes Sam’s gut churn even more, and he is about to retract his hand when suddenly his brother grabs it – and before the young hunter has a chance to react Dean forces one of his fingers to bend backward with a powerful pull. The ‘crack’ of a bone snapping in two is as loud as it is sickening, and a shocked hiss escapes Sam – it almost turned into a yelp, but he managed to swallow it down just in time. Automatically he tears his hand away from Dean and backs up, nearly tripping on his own feet.

  
“Fuck…!” he grits out, staring down at his broken finger in disbelief. It looks all wrong, bent at an awkward angle and viciously throbbing. Trying to steady his breathing he looks back up at Dean, trying to gauge his reaction – and his big brother is looking just as lost as Sam is feeling. If not more. His chest is heaving, his breaths coming out between his teeth in quick puffs of air while he clenches his jaw – but his eyes look almost as sad as they look dangerous. Like he is conflicted, a battle of epic proportions taking place somewhere in his head. Sam wants to ask what it’s about, but to be honest he doesn’t dare. And he doesn’t get the time to do so either, because suddenly Castiel grabs a hold of his injured hand from somewhere on the sideline. Shit, he had almost forgotten about the angel. But now he is most definitely the center of Sam’s attention - because he is yanking his hand towards him and with a swift movement he grabs the broken finger and twists it. As bone grinds against bone red-hot pain shoots through Sam, stealing the air from his lungs and he bares his teeth as his face scrunches up, eyes screwed shut. A tiny whimper leaves him, seeps out between his lips when he fails to keep silent, fails to contain the sound completely even though he had promised himself to do so. Instantly he curses at this pitiful lack of strength, small and incoherent cuss words hissed under his breath. There’s no reason to make this any worse than it has to be, after all. It’s not like Dean and Castiel _want_ to do this to him, so he should really make it as easy on them as he possibly can and spare them the noise that tries to burst from his throat. ‘ _Keep it together!’ h_ e thinks to himself, cradling his injured hand in front of him while his gaze darts from Dean to Castiel and back again. The angel is looking even paler now and he is nervously trying to make eye contact with Dean:

  
“Dean, he’s… He’s not—“

  
“I know!” Dean barks, cutting him off mid-sentence as he starts to pace back and forth on the cement. Sam just follows him with his eyes, tries to analyze the restless movement while gritting his teeth at the pain.

  
“I’m not what?” he croaks, trying to keep his voice steady and even. But he gets no answer. Instead, his brother lets out a loud huff that sounds just a little too close to panicked to Sam’s ears. Instantly his heart rate picks up speed by the sound and he swallows dryly, wishing that he knew what is happening and why his brother and the angel are acting like this. If only he could figure out what or who is pulling their strings it would be a lot easier, but it’s obvious by now that he is being kept in the dark on purpose. But why?

_  
“I’m getting bored, boys…”_

  
The voice instantly makes both Dean and Castiel freeze in their tracks. Warily Dean looks around, still trying to spot the owner of the voice who has to be lurking in the shadows somewhere. But it’s hopeless. There are so many hiding places here, so much darkness too black for his eyes to see through.

_  
“You better step up your game unless you want me to end it for you?”_

  
A growl escapes Dean at that and once again his hand rakes through his hair in frustration, nearly pulling strands out of his own scalp. He doesn’t feel it though. What he does feel is how Sam doubles over when his knee collides with his abdomen, bringing his little brother to his knees on the dirty floor. And just as he lands Castiel delivers a kick to his side that makes him tumble to the ground completely, grimacing when it feels like a rib breaks. But still, all that escapes him is a choked, guttural noise. It’s way too far from a scream. Way too fucking far. Dean lets out something close to a mewl when Sam automatically curls up into a ball on the floor, long legs pulled up towards his chest while he tries to steady his breathing.

_  
“Pathetic.”_

  
The voice rings in Dean’s head and he shoots Castiel a desperate glare, confirming that he heard it too. And he knows that they’re screwed. There’s no way they are going to force a scream out of Sam, let alone two. Not like this. He knows his brother too well and there’s not a sliver of doubt in his mind that he’s far too stubborn and far too determined to give in. But what are they supposed to do? If they keep going like this they’ll end up beating him to death. Or maybe that’s what the voice really wants? Gritting his teeth Dean desperately searches the darkness surrounding them again, but he comes up short. Fuck.

 _  
"Time to change tactics. Let me help you with that,”_ the voice says and instantly Dean tenses. What does she mean she’s going to help? It can’t be good. Nervously his gaze flicks to Sam, trying to catch his glance – but his eyes are covered by a curtain of hair as he lies there in a fetal position, heaving for air. Dean is actually kind of grateful that Sam isn’t looking up at him because he’s certain that he wouldn’t be able to bear the look in those hazel eyes right now. He would look so utterly betrayed. Dean is sure of it.

_  
"Are you ready?”_

  
Dean frowns at the voice in his head as it practically purrs the words, sugar sweet and poisonous. He wants to shout profanities at it, wants to scream from the top of his lungs and tell it to go rot in hell for the rest of eternity. But all that leaves him is a small grunt when suddenly he notices a strange feeling beginning to course through him. It feels warm and tingly and at first, he can’t place it. It’s familiar but at the same time, it feels sort of alien and his brows knit themselves together.

  
“Umm… Dean?” Castiel says meekly, ripping him from his train of thought. Confused he looks at the angel – but Castiel isn’t looking at him. Well, not at his eyes. Instead, his gaze has dropped significantly lower. Puzzled Dean follows his glance and looks down at himself – and instantly his breath hitches in his throat at the sight that greets him. The tent in his jeans is obvious, his dick straining behind the denim as it grows.

  
“Wh-What….” He bursts out but trails off, staring down at his erection in disbelief. How can he possibly be growing hard now? Feeling his cheeks flush he wants to just disappear, to curl in on himself as embarrassment washes through him. Castiel is just staring at him in bewilderment, but finally he manages to tear his eyes away and look everywhere but at Dean.

 _  
“You’re welcome,”_ the voice says, and it is thick with something ominous, pure malice dripping from it. Dean’s frown grows even bigger when he realizes that the owner of the voice is the one responsible for his body acting this way, and instantly an icy chill rolls through him. It can’t be happening. Not this. But the heat pooling in his groin isn’t lying and he can’t seem to get it to die down. Instead, his dick keeps growing, keeps straining against the coarse denim of his jeans almost painfully.

 _  
“You know what to do,”_ the voice then says sweetly. And instantly all color drains from Dean’s face.

  
“No…” he says under his breath, barely audible. He had wanted to scream it, but he knows that he can’t.

 _  
“Yes,”_ the voice merely states, and panicked Dean flicks his gaze to Castiel. The angel’s complexion is suddenly looking close to ashen and he is quite obviously having trouble keeping up the stone-faced appearance. He looks beyond mortified. 

  
On the ground Sam has managed to get up on his elbows, doing his best to pick himself up but not really succeeding. Every time he tries to pull himself up on all fours his legs just collapse end he ends up on the dirty cement again. Everything is throbbing and radiating with all kinds of pain. Sharp, dull, burning and all sorts of other types that he can’t properly identify. He’s convinced by now that he must have more than one broken rib because his side feels like a mosaic of all the types of pain combined and he’s pretty sure his skin must be turning a deep purple under his shirt. With a small grunt he lifts his head and looks up at Dean, thinking he heard him say something. He’s not at all sure though, because his ears are ringing and he might just have imagined it.

  
“Dean?” he says, trying once again to get up on his knees, but immediately he falls right back down. Silence seems to have fallen in the warehouse and it worries him – because silence is usually never a good sign, not when his brother is involved. To be honest it scares him. And as soon as his eyes focus on his brother he stills, his body freezing to the spot. Because Dean looks all wrong. He’s tense and his hands form two angry fists that hang down his sides, clenching. His face is far too pale and he’s as silent as the grave, gaze locked on something far, far away. And then there’s the tent in his jeans. Instantly Sam frowns, eyes growing wide in bewilderment. Why the hell is his brother sporting an erection right now? It doesn’t make sense.

  
“What’s… What’s going on?” Sam manages to say, feeling like he has already asked that question one too many times today without getting any sort of answer. And he doesn’t get one now either. Instead, Dean seems to refuse to look at him and if he isn’t mistaken his bottom lip just twitched a little. Why is his brother looking almost as if he’s about to cry? Confused Sam looks to Castiel, tries to catch the angel’s glance – but he seems to just be looking into the shadows surrounding them, avoiding all eye contact.

_  
“You better get down to business. Unless, of course, you want me to send some of my henchmen to do it for you?”_

  
The voice makes Dean’s face contort into a grimace that looks like a mix of anger and horror. His stomach feels like it’s turning into one big and tight knot of dread, bile rising in his throat when he realizes the gravity of the ultimatum. He doesn’t even dare to imagine what will happen if he doesn’t comply. If only it would result in a quick death for all of them it would be easier. Or a slow death for himself even, he doesn’t care much about that. What he does care about is his brother. And the mere thought of violating him like this makes him want to die, makes him shake with anger, fear, disgust and so much more. But the thought of others violating him is even worse. And how long would they make it last? How long would they drag it out? A shudder rolls through him and he swallows, trying to keep down the vomit that wants to crawl up his throat.

_  
“Tick, tock.”_

  
Something close to a whimper escapes Dean and he finally convinces himself to look down at Sam. The kid looks absolutely oblivious, but there’s a wary expression on his bruised face now. Like he knows something is very, very wrong. If only he knew the extent of it. Dean can feel his eyes well up just a tiny bit and he quickly blinks to mask it. This can’t be happening. It’s far too surreal to be true, far too cruel. And why is the damn heat in his groin growing hotter by the second? It feels like his dick is practically getting squashed against the denim by now. Oh god, and why does Sam have to notice? 

_  
“Going once.”_

  
Dean snaps for air and turns around to face the darkness – but mostly it’s to hide from Sam. He can’t bear him looking at him like that. He can’t stomach it. And Castiel is still just standing there, looking lost and being about as useless as Dean is feeling. Everything about this is so wrong. So twisted. Like reality has become completely distorted. If only this was a nightmare it would make more sense. ‘ _I can’t do this!_ ’ Dean’s mind yells somewhere in his head.

_  
“Going twice.”_

  
A desperate snarl leaves him and he blinks back tears when he turns back to face his brother. Desperation floods his mind like a raging tidal wave, seconds ticking by far too fast and far too slow at the same time. He has to act. There’s no way around it. And he has to do it now before it’s too late. For Sam’s sake. God help him, he has no choice.

  
“Hold him,” he hears himself say. Instantly Castiel’s eyes grow wider and he seems to hesitate – but for the first time in a while, he actually meets Dean’s glance. On the ground Sam is looking from his brother to the angel and back again, nervous confusion painted on his face. The tension in the air is palpable.

  
“Do it, Cas!” Dean barks and the angel nearly jumps. But he seems to unfreeze and slowly he closes the gap between himself and Sam, crouching down next to him. If Sam isn’t mistaken he looks almost a bit wobbly on his feet, every movement unsteady and even a bit jerky. Reluctantly Castiel then grabs hold of him, big hands turning him onto his back and hooking themselves under his arms. Wincing a little Sam lets him. What else can he do? Whatever they are going to do he knows that he has to let it happen, has to fight back the urge to resist. It’ll make it easier on them, after all.

  
“Dean…” Castiel says, but it seems like he trails off. Warily Sam looks up at his brother, tries to gain eye contact. But he isn’t looking at him. Instead, he’s just standing there looking indecisive. Hesitant. Sam’s gut churns painfully. Why doesn’t he just get it over with? Dizzily the young hunter rests the back of his head against Castiel’s shoulder. It sounds like the angel is breathing way too fast, his breath coming out in quick puffs of air and his hands feel like they’re trembling a little. Whatever they are going to do to him, it can’t be good. That much Sam knows. Swallowing dryly he closes his eyes, tries to just gather himself for a moment. 

  
“It’s okay,” he says, but he doesn’t really know who it is directed at. And now he can hear his brother moving, soft taps of his boots against the cement as he walks closer. Sam gathers that pain will probably explode somewhere on his body in a few seconds and he squeezes his eyes shut a little firmer. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t know where it’ll hit him. And maybe it’ll be easier on Dean too if he isn’t looking.

  
Preparing himself for the pain he knows is going to come Sam tries to will his body to relax. But it’s proving difficult. And when he suddenly feels his brother’s hands touch him he almost jumps out of his own skin. Because it doesn’t hurt. He had expected a stomp in the gut or something – not a hand on his hip and another hand… Another hand undoing his belt? Instantly his eyes fly open.

  
“What…?” he begins, his glance darting down to settle on Dean’s hands as they open the belt and pop open the button on his jeans.

  
“What’re you doing?” Sam rasps, now looking back up at his brother as he unzips him. Instinctively his body tenses when Dean doesn’t answer and his fingers hook themselves around the waistband of the jeans, yanking. With one swift movement, they are pulled down to his knees, his underwear following suit only to bunch there. Exposed to the cool air in the warehouse Sam sucks in a sharp breath, his body going as stiff as a board.

  
“Dean?” he hears himself say and for the first time, real horror begins to pool somewhere in his gut, dark and cold and heavy. But his brother still doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps yanking at the jeans and underwear, pulling them down Sam’s long legs until he can take the clothing off completely. Stunned, Sam doesn’t move and with a soft thud his clothes land somewhere on the cement when Dean tosses them over his shoulder. It feels like the cold is biting into Sam's skin – but so is his brother’s glance – and instantly goosebumps rise by the thousands. Wide-eyed he looks up, wants to ask once again what is going on when suddenly Dean grabs his thighs and pushes, parting his legs. And that is answer enough.


	2. Chapter 2

“W-Wait!” Sam gasps when his brother reaches for his own belt, fumbling to open it.

  
“Dean, no, wait, this-this isn’t—“ he begins, but he cuts himself off with a grunt when he tries to sit up, pain shooting through him from his broken ribs – and he doesn’t make it far, because Castiel’s hands are holding on to him tight enough to bruise. In a vice-like grip, the angel keeps his arms pinned behind his back, twisting them a little and making the joints and tendons in his shoulders throb with pain every time he tries to move. And now Dean is unzipping himself, the distinct metallic sound of a zipper unmistakable to Sam’s ears. It pierces everything else, making the young Winchester snap for air when it feels like all oxygen has suddenly left his body. This can’t be happening. There’s no way Dean would ever do this to him, he’s sure of it.

  
“Christo!” Sam blurts out, panic starting to spread in his mind when his brother positions himself in between his parted legs. But there’s no reaction. No flash of black in Dean’s eyes, no nothing. Instead, his face is halfway scrunched up in a mix between concentration and something that looks a lot like desperation. But Sam can’t really tell. He’s far too out of it to even begin to decipher what that look might mean or why Dean isn’t stopping. The only thing he knows is that he definitely isn’t possessed as he had suspected. But then what? And why is Castiel still holding him down like this, wringing his arms up behind his back when he tries to move away?

  
“Let go of me!” he hears himself say, helplessly trying to scramble backward when he sees his brother fish his way too hard dick out of his underwear. But the angel doesn’t budge. All Sam accomplishes is to press his upper back harder against Castiel’s chest. He’s stuck. And his brother is positioning himself, body heat radiating onto the sensitive skin of Sam’s inner thighs as they bracket him. 

  
“Dean!? Dean, wait!” he croaks and automatically he tries to lift his leg to kick him away. But his movements are just a bit too slow, too inhibited by the pain caused by the injuries he’s already sustained – and before he knows it two big hands grab a hold of his thighs, pinning them to the ground and spreading them even further apart.

  
“Just hold still, Sam,” Castiel whispers in his ear from behind, his breath ghosting across the shell of it. Nausea combined with disgust and mind-numbing fear ripple through the young hunter, and he shakes his head, still trying to dig his heels into the ground in order to move away.

  
“No! No, you can’t do this!” he gasps, trying to twist out of Castiel’s and Dean’s grip, but he fails miserably, pain zinging through him from the movement. And they only tighten their grip in response, fingertips digging into his skin and quickly forming bruises and red indents in the shape of crescent moons. 

  
And then he feels it. Something warm is beginning to press against him, slipping in between his ass cheeks - and instantly the world comes to a screeching halt inside his head. He even forgets to breathe. With his mouth agape and his eyes as wide as they can possibly get he stares up at his brother, not able to fathom what is happening.

  
“D-Don’t…!”

  
It’s the only word able to leave Sam’s mouth right now and it sounds so shaky that he is surprised that it’s just somewhat coherent. But even though Dean hears it just fine he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t even ease up a little. Instead, he keeps going, keeps blindly searching for Sam’s entrance by rubbing his rock hard dick back and forth between his ass cheeks, ignoring how the young hunter tries to squirm away while he leans down over him. And Sam’s breath hitches in his throat, a protesting, guttural noise spilling from him when finally Dean’s way too hard and way too dry cock finds what it’s looking for and nudges at the furled muscle.

  
“Please! Dean, please, don’t!” Sam bursts out in a high-pitched whine, and automatically he tries to press his legs together – but Dean’s grip is far too strong. And with Castiel holding his arms in place like this, Sam doesn’t stand a chance at properly defending himself. And he knows it. He knows it all too well. Panicked he tries to catch his brother’s eye, tries to gain eye contact, but it’s like Dean is either too lost in what he’s doing or he simply refuses to look at him. Either way, it makes a full-body shudder roll through Sam and he lets out a small whine when Dean pushes harder, the tip of his dick pressing at the furled muscle way too hard.

  
“S-Stop…!”

  
But Dean doesn’t stop. He can’t. Instead, he digs his fingers harder into the thick muscle of Sam’s thighs and spreads them wider, trying to gain better access. The choked sound spilling from his little brother at that is hard to ignore. It cuts like a shard of glass right through him and Dean thinks he feels his eyes well up just a little. But he can’t show it. Isn’t allowed to. Doesn’t dare.

  
“Stop fightin’!” he manages to grit out instead when Sam tries to squirm once again, digging his heels into the ground in a hopeless attempt to move away. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Castiel tightening his grip on his brother, wringing his arms higher up behind his back and almost popping them out of their sockets from the sheer force it takes to hold the young Winchester down. But still, Sam barely makes any noise. Only some low, panicked whines and grunts leave him. And then there are the pleas. That horrified begging is by far the worst, tearing at Dean and chipping away at what feels like his very soul, slowly cutting it into splinters.

  
“Fuck!” he snarls as he leans down further and practically drapes his torso over Sam’s. His little brother is covered in a sheet of cold sweat, and he does his best to ignore it right along with the tiny whimpers now beginning to escape him. He has to ignore it, has to focus. Sam can’t afford anything else. And the kid is clenching so hard that Dean doubts if he’ll even be able to actually do what is expected of him, doubts if it’s even physically possible. He’ll definitely chafe both of them. And worse. But he can’t think about it. Not now. All he can focus on is ripping those two screams from his brother before time runs out and Sam meets an even worse fate.

  
“Stop it…! No! Pl-Please, Dean!”

  
Oh god, why does he have to say his name like that? Trying to block out the shrill plea, Dean can’t fathom how he’s still hard. How that treacherous heat is still setting his groin alight even though he has never felt more appalled or scared in his entire life. It must be an unusually powerful spell, that’s for sure. And he wishes he could kill that witch with his bare hands right now. In fact, he’d sell his soul just to get the chance. But the darkness around them is vast and seems close to endless, and he knows that he is not going to find the owner of the voice. Not like this. 

  
With a grunt Dean lets the head of his cock press a little harder against the furled muscle, letting some sparse drops of pre-cum slick it up just a tiny bit. It’s not nearly enough. And his brother keeps clenching, keeps helplessly trying to push him away. But there’s no avoiding this. What he _can_ avoid is looking at Sam even though the kid keeps trying to gain eye contact, those wide, hazel eyes desperate to lock on his as if it will somehow help the situation. But Dean can’t look at him. He refuses to. He’s not sure if he can ever again. Not after this. 

  
With his mind spinning Dean squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the ‘no’s and ‘don’t’s and ‘please’s now spilling from Sam in a continuous loop. They’re too low. Far too low. Why won’t he just scream? Why can’t he give in and bellow out his pain instead of those quiet whimpers? Why does he keep trying to hold back? Anger surges through Dean by the thought, and he digs his fingers harder into his brother’s parted thighs. He’s not really angry at Sam, and he knows it – but he needs to be. Needs to be ruthless now and forget about everything else but ripping those screams from him. _‘Focus!’_ his mind hisses at him, and he nudges at Sam’s entrance again to make sure he’s in the right spot. Instantly a whimper spills from the young hunter and he goes as stiff as a board, his hazel eyes frantically searching for his older brother’s green ones but not getting what they’re looking for. Nausea wants to wash through Dean, but still his dick twitches in excited interest at the stimulation. The skin between Sam’s legs is so warm and somehow the heat in his groin grows in intensity. _‘Sick!’_ his mind whispers, but he pushes it away. And then he bucks his hips.

  
As Dean jerks forwards with a mean thrust the head of his cock is forced through the clenched ring of muscle, pushing inside so hard and fast that something is sure to tear. And a strange noise fills the warehouse, loud and high-pitched and bouncing off the walls hidden somewhere in the darkness surrounding them. It sounds almost unrecognizable, almost animalistic – but there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind about what made it.

_  
"Bingo!”_ the female voice praises from somewhere, and Dean feels bile rise in his throat. Briefly, he looks down and immediately his heart sinks in his chest. Sam’s face is scrunched up and he has turned his head to the side - as far away from Dean as possible - while he squeezes his eyes firmly shut. He looks so different. Vulnerable. Hurt. But he screamed. Finally, he actually screamed. But it was Dean who made him do it, made him hurt in such a horrific way. It’s unbearable. 

  
Hurrying to remove his glance from his little brother Dean lets it land on what’s going on between their legs instead. He shouldn’t have. He wants to cry at the sight; the head of his dick is buried inside his brother’s body, blood slowly trickling out around the thick shaft to drip onto the cement below. And the worst thing about it is that the heat in his groin is still there. And it’s growing. Why is it growing? He has already chafed himself and absolutely nothing about this turns him on. Nothing. Still, the way Sam’s body is hugging him, tight heat squeezing his cock has him stifling a moan.

  
“Oh, God…!” he hears himself say and he can’t tell if it sounds agonized or aroused. A part of him wants to just pull out and scramble away, find his discarded gun and blow his own head off. The other part of him wants to push deeper inside the hot body below, feel some more of that squeeze, save Sam, save all of them – and he knows that he has to. He has to. 

  
“Please… No…” Sam whimpers, but he has stopped screaming. He has even stopped resisting. Instead, he just lies there, limp and covered in sweat and blood. Dean would give anything to make this stop, to undo all of this. He’d give literally anything, even his own life. But he knows that there’s only one way out. So, he does what he must and begins to push - but the friction isn’t pleasurable at all, it’s too dry and it’s too tight and Sam’s body is clamping down on him like a vice, chafing him further. Pain shoots through Dean, and it’s beyond him how his dick is still as hard as a rock, but it is. _‘Witchcraft,’_ he tries to remind himself, but still repulsion and self-loathing washes through him so intensely that he’s unsure if he’s going to retch. _‘Get it over with,’_ his mind orders and he begins to push in deeper, almost automatically stilling from the pain shooting through him once again – but he forces himself to ignore it, forces himself to keep pushing. Below him, Sam bares his teeth in an anguished grimace and a wheezing sort of sound escapes him. But no scream. Just a strange rattle. And suddenly Dean finds himself fully sheathed in his brother, his pelvis pressing against him while his dick angrily throbs deep inside the tight heat. But still, Sam stays quiet. Only small whimpers and wheezy grunts make it out between gritted teeth. Is he passing out? _‘No, no, no,’_ Dean’s mind babbles, fear instantly rippling through him. 

  
“Sam!?” he bursts out and a groan slips out of his mouth along with the name as he slaps the side of his brother’s face, making him flinch and squeeze him even tighter. And then Sam’s nostrils flare, eyelids twitching a little when he sucks in some shallow breaths of air. 

  
“Stay with me!” Dean hears himself bark, a thin spray of saliva accompanying the words. And then he pulls back out a little, wincing at the intense drag on his dick when Sam’s walls hug him way too tight for comfort. Still, the heat in his loins instantly flares up, shooting red-hot tendrils all the way up his spine, his belly, his sides, everywhere. And Sam whines, some hoarse sounds getting ripped from his throat. But no scream. Why won’t he scream? They need another scream to end this. Just one more. And a tear. Is he crying? Dean can’t tell and right now he’s too dizzy and too miserable and too aroused to find out. Instead, he thrusts back inside with a quick roll of his hips, burying himself to the hilt. He expected a second scream from that, counted on it – but all he gets is a strangled groan.

  
“God damn it!” he growls and with a swift movement, he hooks his arms under Sam’s thighs, roughly pulling him closer. He doesn’t need to hold him down anymore, doesn’t want to. All he wants is that scream, that heat, that one tear, that horrible release he can feel building somewhere inside of him. _‘Oh, god, what am I doing?’_ his mind cries, but he already knows the answer to that. _‘I’m saving Sam. I’m saving us,’_ the little voice in his head says timidly. He’s not sure if he believes it anymore.

  
With a guttural grunt, he pulls back out of the feverishly hot body, lets the head of his cock almost slip out of the puffy hole – and then he thrusts back in. There’s a vulgar slap of skin against skin when he bottoms out along with a tiny yelp from Sam, but no scream. No god damn scream. Frustration washes through Dean and he grips his brother tighter, setting a brutal pace. Right away the warm tingling in his groin intensifies and spreads and he tries to ignore it while he listens for the scream that is bound to come. There’s no way Sam can keep silent, can keep taking this. There’s no way.

  
“Dea-ean…”

  
The way Sam whispers his name, lets it slip out between his lips only to be cut in two by a vicious thrust, has the older Winchester snapping for air. It sounds so broken. So wrong. Still, the fire in Dean’s groin grows into roaring flames and he grips his brother tighter, definitely leaving bruises on his thighs as he speeds up. He doesn’t really know why he keeps going. Is it even possible to make this work? ‘ _It has to be!’_ his mind hisses. He has to get Sam to scream, has to keep chasing that tingly feeling and that scream and the tear and the agony and – oh, god, why does his brother’s body feel so good?

  
With his face red from shame and exertion and arousal Dean feels how the heat is spreading, pooling in his gut and making him almost forget everything else around him. But maybe it’s for the best? Maybe it’s better to ignore how Sam is trembling, how small whimpers escape him every time he slaps against him? And maybe it’s better if he pretends Castiel isn’t here at all. Maybe he should just keep going, keep hammering into that warm body below and feel how that filthy tingle spreads? It’s easier that way for all of them, right? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that everything feels so incredibly awful. And so horrifically amazing.

  
“Shit…!” he hears himself grunt. Every time he slams into that silky heat his hips stutter a little, zaps of pleasure shooting through him in bursts of heat that leave him to pant and feel lightheaded. The tightness doesn’t feel so dry anymore and he doesn’t need to look down in order to know that there’s more than enough blood to lubricate the way. A crimson pool is forming on the cement, trickling out of Sam and slicking him up so much that Dean can’t even feel the chafing on his dick from earlier anymore. No, all he feels right now is an intense heat just building, building, building. And he knows it’s a matter of seconds now. The tell-tale feeling of his balls drawing up and his thrusts turning erratic is more than proof enough that he’s about to come.

  
“Oh! Oh, fuck!” he moans and automatically he grabs Sam’s waist for leverage, trying to yank him even closer even though it isn’t at all possible. Sam’s eyes are still firmly squeezed shut, his head turned to face the darkness while Castiel is just sitting there with him pulled halfway up on his lap, holding his arms. Out of the corner of his eye Dean notices that the angel looks as white as a sheet. But he doesn’t really care. He can’t. He doesn’t have the capacity to care; not when his cock throbs like this and not when the hot squeeze around it feels like liquid velvet. It feels fantastic. It feels mind-numbing.

  
With a loud grunt, Dean hits the point of no return, slams into it headfirst. As his hips jerk forward faster and harder, he forgets how to think. He even forgets how to breathe. All that exists is that raw pleasure bombarding him, overwhelming him and sucking him into a void of heat and lust and need. He can feel himself grow bigger and harder inside the tight body, can feel how the muscles of his brother’s abdomen twitch and tremble around him, pressing against his cock. It’s too much. It’s too much and not enough all at once and he knows that he’s lost. Somewhere he thinks he hears Sam make a breathless sort of sound and more of those beautiful muscles contract around his cock and under his fingertips. And that’s when the idea hits him. Without thinking twice Dean places a flat hand right below Sam’s navel and presses down – just as the tingle in his groin turns to blazing fire – and he can feel himself underneath the tanned skin, bulging. Instantly his mouth drops open at the extra pressure, at the squeeze and flexing of Sam’s muscles when he grows impossibly big inside of him. And then the orgasm hits him like a derailed freight train.

  
“Ohhh!! F-Fuck, Sammy!!” he growls, pushing himself in as deep as he can possibly go. As he bottoms out completely he presses his hand down harder on Sam’s belly, gone in a mental white-out that has him seeing stars. While pleasure rips through him gushes of cum shoot from his cock in hot spurts, filling up the narrow space somewhere underneath his palm. It's wonderful. And then there’s something else. Something in the middle of this hot chaos that pierces through the ringing in his ears and almost interrupts the cramp-like tensing of his muscles as he arches his back. It sounds kind of familiar, yet not quite. Like a sort of howling noise or a wail or something. What _is_ that? He’s not sure if he cares though, can’t make up his mind about it when his dick keeps pulsing like this, the tight squeeze of his brother’s body milking him dry drop by drop. It’s overwhelming and it makes his mind foggy and it feels like his dick is on fire and it’s amazing – and he still hasn’t breathed.

  
With a loud gasp, Dean sucks in a huge gulp of air, filling his oxygen-deprived lungs. And instantly it feels like the white blanket of stars in his vision begins to disperse and fade. So does the intense fire in his groin, the flames growing smaller and turning into smoldering embers of post-orgasmic bliss. 

  
A shudder rolls through him when the last bit of that wonderful fog leaves his mind to return him to reality, clearing both his brain and his vision. And then... Then it feels like he slams face-first into a brick wall. The very first thing he sees when he focuses his eyes is how his softening dick is still buried in his brother, streams of red mixed with white slowly dribbling out to blotch the cement. The next is his brother’s face. He looks so different. His expression is something Dean can’t even put words on and he’s no longer wearing that pained grimace – he’s just lying there, glance averted and his mouth open as he sucks in one shallow breath after the other. Like he’s stunned. Covered in sweat and blood he just lies there without moving a muscle, halfway slumped in Castiel’s lap and halfway crumbled on the dirty cement floor. Quiet. Not even daring to look in Dean’s direction. _‘Oh god, what have I done?’_ the little voice in Dean’s head bursts out and nausea washes through him so intensely that a choked sound escapes him. _‘What have I done??”_ the voice repeats, not wanting to believe what has just happened. What he has just done to his own brother.

_  
“Thatta boy!”_

  
The words ring around inside Dean's brain, buzzing like an insect trapped in there, and he fights the tremors now running through him as a sob tries to wrack his body. He doesn’t even know what the voice is praising him for. And he doesn’t care. All he cares about is how broken his brother looks right now. And that _he_ is the cause of it.

_  
“Wasn’t so hard, now was it? And congratulations on scream number two!”_ the voice says and for a moment Dean frowns, not understanding a word of it. Did Sam scream? When the hell did he scream? Dean didn’t hear a thing- oh, wait… That howling noise! That strange wail he thought he heard while he was... While he was… Again, nausea rolls through him and he winces almost as if someone slaps him in the face. _‘While you came in him,’_ the little voice in the back of his mind states, finishing the thought for him.

  
Horrified Dean looks down between his legs again, his gaze fixing on where his body is joined with Sam’s. There’s so much blood. And sticky white. And only now is he softening to the point where he almost slips out of the abused hole automatically. _‘You’re sick!’_ his mind spits at him. And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t even think about it. Because the voice is right. 

  
“Oh, god…” he says under his breath, his guts churning and his eyes welling up. It feels like someone has just grabbed his heart and wrenched it into a bloody pulp. There’s nothing left. Suppressing the urge to let himself burst into tears he lifts his gaze once again to look at Sam. But he’s still looking the other way, just staring vacantly into the darkness surrounding them while his chest heaves and beads of sweat roll off his forehead.

  
“Sam…?” Dean hears himself say and winces at the way his voice cracks. But his brother still doesn’t respond. Instead, he just blinks his eyes a couple of times and it looks like a full-body shudder rolls through him by the sound of his own name.

  
“Sam, I’m not… I-I didn’t mean…” Dean begins, but he can’t finish the sentence and ends up trailing off. And what is he supposed to say? He can’t justify what he just did no matter what words he chooses to use. And he can’t even tell it like it is, because that damn witch is still there, listening. Watching their every move.

_  
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the show, Dean-o. It’s like watching a Greek tragedy, really. But I’m gonna have to remind you that you’re not done.”_

  
Can she hear his thoughts? An icy shiver rolls through Dean and he swallows a lump that has formed in his throat, feeling like it’s close to blocking his airway. Nervously he then flicks his gaze to Castiel, seeking some sort of guidance, but finds that he can’t get himself to look him in the eye anyway, so he ends up just looking back down at his brother.

  
“Please, Sam… Please look at me,” he says, his voice a shaky whisper. But his brother doesn’t comply. If it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes are open Dean would think that he has passed out.

_  
“Gettin’ bored here… Even Greek tragedies have to end, you know,”_ the voice suddenly says and Dean doesn’t miss how it’s now laced with impatience. He doesn’t miss the silent threat in it either.

  
“Sam, look at me,” he forces himself to say, trying to keep his voice from trembling. But Sam doesn’t. Instead, his nostrils flare and his glassy eyes keep staring at something far, far away. Frustration washes through Dean along with a million other things that he can’t even begin to keep track of and anxiously he taps Sam’s thigh with his fingers, trying to provoke a reaction. But all it does is make Sam flinch. Nothing more.

_  
“Boring. You either get that tear out of him now or I’m gonna have to take over our little game night,”_ the voice says.

  
Instantly it feels like the lump is back in Dean’s throat, trying to suffocate him. He knows that there’s absolutely no room for negotiation. And he can’t stall either. But what the hell is he supposed to do?

  
“Sam!” he spits, his voice coming out a lot louder than he intended it to. And again Sam flinches, his body jolting by the sound – but he doesn’t turn his head to look at him, doesn’t dare. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the shadows. It’s clear that he’s disassociating, his hazel eyes all glassy and vacant and not really registering anything. Just like dad taught them.

  
Desperate and out of options Dean lets go of his brother’s thighs and leans down over him, panic rippling through his mind and making him dizzy enough to almost lose his balance. As he moves his now flaccid dick finally slips out of Sam’s body, a stream of bloody cum following it to stain the cement below – and the young hunter lets out a frightened gasp. But Dean can’t let it stop him, can’t go half as easy on his brother as he wants to. Instead of slowing down or pulling back he lets his hands cup Sam’s face and watches him try to recoil from the touch.

  
“Sam! Look at me!!” he barks, not letting his little brother squirm out of his grasp. And finally, Sam stills, freezing to the spot like a statue, a gasp stuck somewhere in his throat. And then Dean forces him to turn his head to face him, ignoring his weak attempt to resist. It hurts more than he could have imagined. It hurts so bad that Dean snaps for air and has to fight the urge not to throw up right then and there – because how can he possibly even be touching Sam right now? He doesn’t have the right. And the way Sam shakes and helplessly keeps trying to avoid looking Dean in the eye breaks his heart, makes what’s left of it plummet right into the depths of his gut.

  
“Sam? Sammy??” he rasps, tilting his brother’s chin upwards a little to make him look at him. And finally, Sam’s eyes meet his. It’s reluctant, but he truly has nowhere else to look because Dean is filling up almost his entire field of vision as he leans down over him. The effect it has on both of them is instantaneous. The second they lock in eye contact Sam’s breath hitches in his throat only to come out as a whimper that Dean wishes he didn’t have to hear. And his eyes… His eyes are changed. Wide and terrified they stare up at him, that bright gleam usually present in them long gone and extinguished. Now he just looks broken. Broken and ashamed and so fearful that Dean has to fight to keep looking at him.

  
“I’m sorry!”

  
Dean doesn’t even realize he says it before it has tumbled out of him. His thumbs are frantically nuzzling at Sam’s cheeks, desperately trying to offer some sort of comfort. But it’s not doing a damn thing other than making a mewl spill from his little brother. A heavy feeling settles somewhere in Deans’ chest. They’re not going to make it, are they? Because it doesn’t look like he’s going to get Sam to shed a single tear. Not in time. _‘No, no, no, no,’_ his mind whispers in a panic. After all of this, how can he let his brother down? How can he possibly fail now? He can’t! 

  
“Sam, please! I’m-I’m so sorry…!” Dean bursts out, nearly in a hiccup, and now he can’t prevent his eyes from welling up so quickly that a few tears make their way out of the corner of his eye to trickle down his cheek. He has never felt anything like this. Never in his entire life as a hunter has he felt a fear this deep or a darkness this black and twisted inside of himself. It’s so wrong. Everything about this is wrong. And it’s all his fault that they even got to this point – and now Sam is going to pay for it.

  
Without even realizing it Dean has started crying. He discovers that his shoulders are tense and moving up and down jerkily as sobs wrack him. And finally, Sam seems to react. Something in his eyes changes. Like, he has snapped back to reality and is actually present, the glassiness almost gone from his hazel gaze.

  
“Please forgi- please forgive me…!” Dean says, his sentence cut in two by a sob that he fails to hold back. And now Sam’s bottom lip almost looks like it quivers just a little. Still locked in eye contact Dean feels a sudden need to cast down his glance, but he manages to keep looking at his brother even though an overwhelming feeling of shame and guilt is tearing through him. Then Sam’s lips part a little, the bloodied flesh trembling slightly.

  
“Why?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse and timid. Immediately Dean sucks in a shaky breath, not at all expecting his brother to speak to him. And even though the question is extraordinarily simple, he doesn’t know what to answer. Even if he knew he isn’t sure if he’d be able to speak right now. Instead, the last bit of his strength seems to disappear into thin air by the sound of his brother’s voice and finally he is no longer capable of holding back. As the very last bit of his defenses crumble he feels how tears stream down his face uninhibitedly, dripping down on the remains of Sam’s torn shirt and creating dark, circular blotches on the flannel. And Dean has to break eye contact, dropping his head to stare down at the wet fabric. It’s unbearable to look at his brother right now. How can he?

  
“Why?” Sam repeats. And he sounds so lost. So hurt. But there’s something else in his voice too, something Dean has only heard a handful of times in his life. The way Sam’s voice cracks can only mean one thing. Quickly Dean whips his head back up, looking into his brother’s eyes once again. And they _do_ definitely look wetter than before. And accusing. _‘They should be,’_ Dean thinks.

  
“Why did you… Why did you d-do this to me?” Sam asks, the words almost not able to make it out. And now his eyes look like they turn even wetter. Dean doesn’t even try to hold back the choked sob that escapes him at this brother’s question. Because what is he supposed to say? Not bothering to stifle his crying he nuzzles his thumbs at Sam’s cheeks again, fumbling for the words:

  
“Because I... I love you, Sammy,” he manages to say. And _that_ seems to strike a nerve. While Dean watches, Sam’s eyes grow wider and his bottom lip begins to quiver – and suddenly his face begins to contort ever so slightly. There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind now. His brother’s raised bottom lip and his upper lip compressed downward like this can only mean one thing. And then it happens. Just as Dean flicks his gaze back up from Sam’s mouth to fix on his eyes, it happens: A single teardrop finally escapes. Finally. As Dean’s eyes follow the silvery bead of excess water while it rolls down his brother’s flushed cheek he finds himself frozen to the spot, just watching. It's almost mesmerizing. The way it slowly trickles down, following the tiny curves of pores on the tanned skin, is somehow the most beautiful thing he has ever witnessed. And the most horrible. 

  
Suddenly, the sound of applause explodes in Dean’s head. Instantly he jumps, his gaze darting from one shadowy spot to the next when he automatically tries to locate the source of the sound. But of course, he can’t. It’s inside his head, after all. Nowhere and everywhere. Castiel hears it too, because the angel startles, his body instantly tensing. Sam doesn’t seem to hear anything though. He’s still sprawled in Castiel’s lap, quietly sobbing.

_  
“And we have a winner!”_ the female voice beams in excitement, her wide smile practically audible.

_  
“Congratulations! I honestly didn’t think you were gonna make it, Dean-o… Guess I was wrong. Damn,”_ the voice chuckles, and Dean grits his teeth. He wants to shout at the invisible enemy to show herself. To just quit the damn hide-and-seek and reveal herself so he can chop her head off. But he doesn’t get the opportunity to think about it any further because suddenly the world turns strangely lopsided. Everything is getting stretched and warped, every shape and color bleeding into one another. It feels like he’s suspended in the air all of a sudden. Like an intense stomach drop is stealing the air from his lungs. And then everything accelerates, pushing him forwards through darkness and light and nothingness.

_  
“Pleasure doin’ business with you!”_ the voice says from somewhere far away – and suddenly his senses seem to return, taking the world with it. There’s something soft under him, something that gives way under his weight a little. It almost makes him bounce. And what’s that metallic sound? It sounds almost like the shrieking of the springs in a mattress. Dizzily he tries to focus his eyes and finally, the blurriness surrounding him turns into something solid, something he can actually see. It’s the motel room. He’s back at the motel room.

  
“What?” he croaks, not sure if he can trust his own eyes. Baffled he looks down only to find that he’s still straddling Sam. And Castiel is here too. Everything is at it was moments ago, but their location has changed. Now they’re all on one of the beds in their motel room, the cheap mattress loudly complaining under their weight. Bewildered Dean looks at Castiel, not quite able to fathom exactly what just happened.

  
“Teleportation,” the angel dead-pans, looking around nervously as if he’s trying to make sure that the witch really has released them from her grip. It could be a trick. As he looks around the room, not daring to move, Dean fixes his gaze on Sam. He’s apparently still cupping his little brother’s face, and he hurries to let go of him, nearly falling right off the bed when he scoots backward to get out of his personal space. Dazed Sam flinches when the calloused fingers leave him along with Dean’s weight and he nervously flicks his gaze around the small room, disoriented.

  
“Cas,” Dean says, ignoring how his voice shakes. The angel shortly looks at him, still uncertain what he should focus on more – the possible danger they’re in or the urgency in Dean’s voice.

  
“Cas!” Dean says again and his eyes are glued to his brother. There’s a scarlet pool forming between Sam’s legs, slowly seeping into the rough fibers of the beige duvet on the bed. And he is heaving for air, his bruised chest rising and falling way too fast. 

Thankfully Castiel is quick to catch on. Without hesitation he places his hands on Sam, ignoring how the young hunter instinctively tenses from the touch. As light flows from his fingers Sam gasps for air, his eyes rapidly blinking as all of his injuries heal in a matter of seconds. It feels strange. Like a warm sort of tickle zapping through him. As all of the bruises and internal damage disappear Sam’s physical strength returns – and before he knows it he is scrambling away to put some distance between himself, Dean and the angel. With an ‘oomph’ he lands on the carpet next to the bed, long legs nearly getting tangled in each other when he kicks at the floor to move away further.

  
“H-Hey…! Easy, we won’t hurt you!” Dean says, fighting the urge to just follow his brother and wrap his arms around him in a hopeless attempt to calm him down. But Sam shakes his head, his wide eyes laser-focused on Dean as he smacks into the next bed with his back first, pulling his legs up towards his chest. Curling up like that he just sits there with his arms wrapped around his knees, wary eyes not leaving his older brother for a split second.

  
“How am I supposed to believe that??” he then asks. His voice is frantic and small. And it's inquiring as well, but still his words sound more like a statement than a question. And Dean can’t blame him. He really can’t. Still teary-eyed he slowly raises his hands into the air a little in response, silently trying to state that he’s not going to move.

  
“Sam, I didn’t mean it! It was the witch, she-she made me…” he begins, but trails off into something close to a sniffle. Because he really can’t find the words.

  
“Y-You raped me...!” Sam bursts out, wants to shout it – but it comes out as a whisper. And there it is. He said what Dean couldn’t.

  
“She was going to torture you to death! I… I couldn’t... Sam, I had no choice!” Dean says, desperately trying to convince himself of exactly that. Sam’s brows knit themselves together even closer.

  
“You should have let me die,” he says and his voice is a lot flatter than what Dean would like.

  
“Please, Sam—“

  
“No!” he spits, and this time it _is_ an actual shout. As it bounces off the cheap drywall with the tacky flowery wallpaper Dean casts down his glance.

  
“I’m sorry,” he says and it feels like he can’t breathe. Like all air has been sucked out of the room and he’s hovering in some sort of icy vacuum. And he knows that Sam is right. He should have chosen death for all of them. Instead, he put Sam’s life above everything else no matter the cost. And already the cost has proven to be way too high. Because this is a fate far worse than death. How can they ever look each other in the eye again? Something tells him that they won’t be finding out because Sam is sure to be walking out that door and never look back.

  
“Cas…” Dean says, his hand blindly shooting out to grab the angels’ trenchcoat.

  
“Cas, please… Please, you gotta erase his memory,” he rasps, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the beige fabric. Instantly Sam’s eyes go even wider and the little wrinkle between his furrowed brows grows deeper: 

  
“What, so you can remember everything while I walk around clueless? No!” he yells, shooting up from his sitting position on the floor. His voice is cracking and Dean notices how his jaw muscles clench and his bottom lip quivers. He sounds completely lost. And there’s so much desperation in his voice that the older hunter has to stop himself from automatically getting up to hug him, to try and soothe him like he’s always done. Because this time that won’t help his little brother in the slightest. No, it’s the polar opposite now - and Dean can only watch while Sam paces to and fro, keeping the distance between them at at least an arm’s length.

  
“It’s not like- like I want to remem- Cas, please, you gotta make him forget!” Dean bursts out, blinking at the tears that want to escape his eyes.

  
“No!” Sam repeats, and this time it sounds like he’s just about to let a sob wrack his body.

  
“I cannot erase someone’s memory without their consent, Dean. It isn’t right,” Castiel says lowly, ignoring how he is being pulled at as Dean grows more and more desperate. His green eyes are wet and wild and scared and he keeps looking at his brother while he’s clinging to the angel like a drowning man would to a boat. 

  
“Please… Please let him, Sam,” he begs and his pleading gaze is locked on the young hunter, refusing to back down. This time there’s a new kind of sincerity to his voice that seems to trigger something in his little brother, seems to poke at something deep down. Because Sam looks like he's hesitating a bit as he slows down his frantic pacing. And it seems like he’s beginning to hyperventilate, sucking in one shallow breath of air after the other way too fast. He’s clearly conflicted. In fact, it looks like some sort of tug of war is taking place in his mind right now. Still, he weakly shakes his head – but it isn’t in dismissal this time. It’s in powerlessness. The change is so subtle and the difference so small, but Dean doesn’t miss it. 

  
“Sam, you can’t live with this!” he states, looking up at his brother. Sam finally stops his restless pacing and returns Dean’s glare, hazel eyes piercing him to the bone:

  
“Then neither can you!”

  
The statement is simple, really. So is the underlying ultimatum. Still, it feels like a slap to the face and Dean feels himself tensing, his mind resisting even though it’s true: He can’t live with this either. That’s the honest truth and there’s no denying it. No point in even trying to. But how can he let himself forget how much he hurt his brother? Part of him wants to remember. No, he feels _obligated_ to. If he forgets how can he ever punish himself for it?

  
“Sam…” he says in a whisper, trying to get himself to object. To get himself to refuse the ultimatum. But his brother’s arms are crossed, his shoulders trembling and tears are now flowing down his cheeks to drip from his chin. The look on his face is one of utter misery. And that does it.

  
“Okay… Okay,” Dean says, nodding as he wipes his nose with his forearm. _‘Maybe it is for the best,’_ his mind carefully suggests. And it’s probably right. Still, Dean pushes it away, refusing to surrender completely to the fact that he’s about to walk away from the biggest crime of his life. And for free. What kind of person does that?

  
“Alright…” Sam rasps, letting his gaze fall to the floor when he can’t look at his brother anymore. Silence falls. A heavy one. 

  
“So… How do we do this?” Dean manages to ask, not able to ignore how Sam has returned to avoid looking at him. Slowly he untangles his fingers from Castiel’s trenchcoat, reluctantly releasing it to wipe at his eyes.

  
“Well… First, you must lie down and then I help you fall asleep,” the angel says, his blue eyes wandering from Sam to Dean and back again. 

  
“And while you sleep I erase all events that have occurred in the last twenty-four hours from your memory,” he continues. His deep voice sounds even gruffer than it usually does and Dean can’t help but notice how pale the angel still looks. How worried.

  
“But, please, do take into consideration that this is irreversible,” Castiel adds, searching the brothers’ faces.

  
“Are you absolutely sure that you want to do this?” he asks, directing his attention at Dean. The oldest brother is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking nothing short of defeated.

  
“Yes,” he says quietly. 

  
“And you, Sam? Do you consent?” Castiel asks, now looking at the younger brother who is nervously fidgeting with his hands and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It looks like he wants to squirm right out of his own skin, like he would shed it in an instant if only he had the chance. Then he nods his head, briefly meeting Castiel’s glance before casting his eyes back down.

  
“Please lie down. Both of you,” the angel says, mentally readying himself for the task at hand. But he instantly notices how Sam tenses and he hurries to add:

  
“You don’t have to share. You can lie on separate beds.”

  
The tension in Sam’s body seems to ease a little and he bites his bottom lip. Carefully and without letting Dean out of his sight he lies himself down on the bed next to his. Clearly uncomfortable he covers his naked groin with his hands and tries his best to relax. It’s obvious that he is failing though.

  
“When you wake up I will tell you that you were both hit with a spell that caused permanent memory loss,” Castiel says as he places himself in between the two beds, reaching out his hands to touch both brothers at the same time. As soon as his index finger connects with Sam’s temple the young hunter almost flinches away – but manages to force himself to keep still. 

  
“Are you ready?”

  
The question hangs heavily in the air. Like a blanket of impending doom and salvation all wrapped into one. Sam nods his head, thinking that he should probably close his eyes for this but finds that he can’t get himself to do so.

  
“Sam?” Dean’s voice says. Carefully the young hunter turns his head a little to look at his brother, and this time he forces himself to look him dead in the eye. A shiver instantly rolls down his spine, bouncing off each vertebra as an icy chill – but he keeps looking.

  
“I’m sorry,” Dean says. And he looks lost. Sam wants to say that it’s okay, that he forgives him, but somehow the words fail him, refusing to leave his mouth. Instead, he nods his head a little. His lips even try to form a tiny smile, but it probably ends up looking all wrong and contorted. Still, his brother nods back. Then, a weird buzzing feeling hits his temple and Dean gets all blurry – then strangely dark – then black – then nothing – then –

  


*********

A tired groan fills the quiet and Sam opens his eyes, trying to figure out where he is. God, he feels exhausted. Like he's been run over by a friggin tank. Automatically he quickly moves a little to figure out if he’s hurt and in that case how badly. But to his surprise, there’s no pain. By now his eyes have adjusted to the light and he blinks, looking around. It’s the motel room. Somehow he’s back at the motel room. And it’s day time.

  
“What the hell?” he says, getting up into a sitting position. Darting his glance around the room it ends up settling on his brother who’s also sitting up in his bed, looking just as confused as Sam is feeling. They look at each other, both bewildered.

  
“What happened?” Dean asks, looking at Sam. Raising his eyebrows inquiringly Sam looks down at himself only to discover that he’s naked, only covered by a blood-stained duvet.

  
“Umm… I don’t… I don’t know??” Sam says, checking himself once again for injuries but finding none.

  
“We were hunting her a-and… And…” Dean says, trailing off when he realizes that his memory stops there. At the same moment, the air seems to shift in the motel room and suddenly Castiel flickers into focus, appearing in front of them. Both hunters nearly jump in surprise.

  
“Oh… Good. You are awake,” the angel says, looking from Dean to Sam and back again. Frowning the brothers look at each other, then back at Castiel.

  
“What’s going on?” Sam asks and for some reason he finds himself feeling sick and tired of asking that question. Scratching the back of his head in confusion he pulls the duvet up around his body a little higher.

  
“And where’re my clothes?” he adds, looking at the man in the beige trenchcoat.

  
“I’m afraid I had to cut them off you. You were badly injured,” Castiel responds. His voice sounds even more monotone than usual somehow.

  
“But I healed you,” he adds, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  
“But what _happened_ , Cas?” Dean demands, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. The angel’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and he shrugs a little, almost looking like he’s trying to pick the right words to use.

  
“We were hunting that damn witch and then… Then suddenly we’re here and we don’t remember a thing!” Dean continues, staring at Castiel with an incredulous look on his face. Sam just nods, also looking at the angel, waiting.

  
“The witch... Yes. You were hit with quite a powerful spell,” Castiel says. Silence follows. Both brothers just keep staring at him until Sam tilts his head, gesturing for him to go on.

  
“And…?” he asks.

  
“And your memory of the last twenty-four hours has been erased,” he says, looking gone in thought.

  
“What? Why?” Dean asks. Castiel seems a little taken aback by that question.

  
“I don’t know, Dean. Maybe she wanted to cover her tracks,” he huffs as he takes his hands back out of his pockets. It seems like he has other places to be because the angel is obviously a little restless. 

  
“Alright, well… Did we gank her?” Dean asks, and now a cheeky smile spreads on his face. Sam just quirks his eyebrows at that, a small smirk appearing on his lips at his brother's choice of words. But Castiel shakes his head. 

  
“No… No, she, uhh… She got away,” he says.

  
“What?? How the hell did that happen?” Dean asks, his smile fading. But the angel shrugs again:

  
“I don’t know. I can’t watch you all the time,” he just says, and he almost sounds annoyed. Dean frowns:

  
“We know, but we thought maybe you saw—“

  
“I am needed elsewhere,” Castiel interrupts – and in the blink of an eye he’s gone, the air in the motel room shifting once again. Dean lets out a huff.

  
“Who pissed in _his_ cornflakes?” he mutters. Lifting his arms above his head he stretches before letting himself fall back down on the bed, not caring that he’s fully clothed.

  
“I don’t know ‘bout you, Sammy, but I’m dead tired. Gonna get some shut-eye, alright? Tonight we’ll do some digging,” he yawns, sending his brother a brief glance. Sam can only nod at that. He has to admit that he feels tired as hell too. But before he can go to sleep he has to shower, because honestly he feels disgusting. And he reeks of sweat. And he knows that he won’t be able to fall asleep in a bed this clean while being this dirty.

  
“Alright. I’ll just hit the shower first,” he says and swings his legs out over the edge of the bed. He’s just about to push the duvet aside and stand up when suddenly he finds himself hesitating. It’s not like Dean hasn’t seen him naked before, but for some strange reason he just doesn’t feel like wandering around in the nude right now. _‘That’s stupid,’_ his mind chuckles somewhere. And it is. It’s really stupid. Still, he clings on to the duvet as he walks to the bathroom, just wrapping it around his waist as if it was a towel. Because why not? 


End file.
